The first motorcycle I fell in love with was a Hodaka Dirt Squirt. She was just the right fit, nimble, forgiving and easy to read. It became clear early on that learning to ride was a lot about learning how to live. It feels like the right time to start writing some of this out. May the writing be like my first motorcycle...

Saturday, April 21, 2012

Although we’ve experienced a few weeks of rain, the ride
season began in earnest in March, giving me over a month of riding that I
normally wouldn’t have.It has
allowed me to meet up with other friends who ride sooner than usual.I’ve gone from being secluded in my
home watching movies, to RIDE club dual-sport rides and bike church
Sundays.This has been the
third season I’ve gone to bike church - the local coffee shop around the corner
from my house where other riders meet for

conversation and coffee.I like seeing the same people
again year after year.It makes me
feel like I have a lot of friends on the road.When I wave at a passing rider it might be someone I’ve met
at bike church; it makes the world seem smaller and more friendly.Along with these riding opportunities,
early warm weather has brought other gifts with it.I’m walking, doing home repairs and taking stock of my work
life.

Pia met me at bike church. We talked until everyone else was
gone.We sat so long, a few people
I had visited with earlier in the morning rode by again and we exchanged waves.We decided to spend the afternoon
riding and then stop for lunch in Richland, which is about an hour away as the
crow flies.We took the long way
around, though, with me leading her there via favorite roads.Once we left Grand Rapids, I found
myself committed to the happenings on the ride.The sights and sounds of the trip flitted past me,
registering not only in my mind, but in my body.True to the spirit of riding, I was no longer thinking about
our destination, but instead, was taking in the details of the areas we passed
through.

We took Fulton into Ada where we drove through town and past
the softball field and the covered bridge, under the railroad tracks and around
the edge of the lake.From there we
turned onto Buttrick, a road that links one subdivision to another. It is edged
by a paved path and we passed runners and bicyclists and young couples pushing
strollers.We came to Whitneyville
road and headed south.Here,
houses are set far back from the road – we passed a man on a riding lawn mower
tracing neat lines in his front yard and sending the scent of freshly cut grass into the air.We turned east and hit winding roads past a man who had pulled off to
fish in a near-by stream.He wore
gators and was sorting through a tackle box with his pole perched against his
car.We turned south again and
passed a road-side park.I saw two
pair of flip-flops sitting on a picnic table before spotting their owners peering
into the creek.We picked up speed
as the houses spread out.Dirt
side roads appeared as tributaries on our route.With another turn, we were in farm country.We rolled up and down hills and wound around
curves nestled among fields, riding from one barn to the next.The sky was robin’s egg blue with clouds
floating so low over the land, we passed through cold spots as we rode
underneath them, the sun’s warming rays just out of reach.Fields were freshly plowed into neat
rows and the smell of rich loamy soil rose up around us.

Every ride is an opportunity to practice, but early season
rides remind me why- some of my actions felt stilted after so much time off
during winter. So I refreshed my
cornering skills amid the freshly-tilled countryside: slowing to a safe entry
speed then rolling on the throttle as I reached the apex of the curve. I loosened my grip, dropped my right
shoulder and shifted my upper body toward the right mirror, preparing my body
for the sweeping right-hand curve.

This week I have awakened each morning and walked for an
hour.I take a different route
each time.I walk to the end of
each street then turn, walk and turn, letting my feet guide me.Sometimes while walking, I get a
picture of a part of the city in my mind’s eye and I start heading in that
direction.This is a microcosm of
my motorcycle rides.I let the
route unfold.I watch my body
loosen up as it wakes up.While
walking, I practice different strides- first short quick steps then longer
while lifting my knees higher.I
move my arms like windmills or hug myself or stretch both arms behind me and
clasp hands.Walking like this is
a meditation for me.I am not
timing my miles, not aiming for distance travelled.I only want to feel my body and discover what it’s capable
of. I am preparing my body for the day.

Pia and I continue our ride into Middleville and turn on to
M-37 for a short stretch until we find M-43.This road takes us past a Goodwill and a turn-off for Yankee
Springs, toward tiny towns. We ride through Cloverdale and into Delton past two
cruisers parked outside a bar.We
follow behind a small red car going much too slow, past a fun trio of curves
between Gull Lake and Little Long Lake.Finally, we arrive in Richland at the Blackhawk Inn where we stop to
talk and lunch.This is the ideal
way to spend an afternoon- riding with a friend whose company I enjoy off the
bike as much as on it.

Our conversation at lunch was just as varied as the roads
we’d traveled.We talked about our
careers up until that point and what direction they’re taking.We talked about relationships we’ve had
and how disappointed we’d been.We
talked about new people in our lives and the possibilities that exist with
them.We shared fears of loss and
sought answers to questions we didn’t know were there until we started
talking.This is the way of women-
discussing, divulging, discovering.The ride down was a chance to escape our histories, the lunch a chance
to review it and the ride home was a new beginning.She is deepening in relationship with another and I am
deepening in relationship with myself.I am preparing myself for a new life as a writer.

I’ve been following the urges to move everyday through my
morning walks.I’ve also been
doing some work around the house.I feel driven to do this.It’s had me sorting and discarding, raking and sweeping, digging and
planting.It’s made me find tools
I haven’t touched in many months- a hammer, drill, screwdriver, wire
brush.I’ve pulled out gallons of
paint and bottles of spackle.I
hear the faint sound of my father’s table saw and see his pencil caught behind
his ear.I see parts of him in me
as I work.I am engaged in other
work here- inner work, it finally occurs to me, as I move my desk into position
in a new room.I am setting up
shop.I am rearranging and
repairing- all in preparation for a new beginning.I am preparing my home for my new life.

Some roads have become as familiar as old friends.I return to them year after year to
reset.I gauge my riding skills
since the last time on that route, make adjustments to my body position and break habits to find newer, safer ones.The riding season is another way I tell
time.Another way I take stock of
my life.I return to the ritual of
Spring cleaning to sort through old belongings, repair what is broken and discard
what isn’t worth saving.I look at
friendships that have worn thin and new ones that offer support and guidance. In
all I do- whether on a ride, in a relationship, in my home or in my body- I am
finding a new way. A way that enlivens, enriches and encourages me.This year holds much promise- I look
outside at the daffodils and see this promise reflected in the bright faces of
their Spring blooms nodding in the breeze.